


Major Lumsden's Wife

by fawatson



Category: The Ballad of East and West - Rudyard Kipling
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Kamal steals the Major's wife with predictable consequences.





	Major Lumsden's Wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lnhammer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lnhammer/gifts).



> **Request:** Anything -- especially if it focuses on the message of lines 3-4. Possible prompts: Kamal's story. A genderswap, either in-setting or in an AU. The sequel career of Kamal's son. A retelling of the poem's historical kernel: the recruitment by Col. Harry Lumsden of the "Guides" of bandit Dilawur Khan in c.1848 (again either in-setting or AU).
> 
>  **Disclaimer** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them. 
> 
> **Author’s Notes:** This story mentions characters from “Miss Youghal’s Sais” from _Plain Tales from the Hills_ by Rudyard Kipling.

The time comes in life when most men marry and it had come for Harry Lumsden, Major of the Guides. He had settled down much since those heady days as a Sub-Lieutenant when he chased after the miscreant who had stolen his father the Colonel’s mare. He still dined out on that story, of course; it was far too good to let it rest. But there was no denying he had come a long way since the dashing young man braved the Tongue of Jagai and Kamal’s rifles. 

He had the knack of being likeable but not ingratiating, which is always useful in any career. He was naturally athletic, but not overly competitive, which meant he won his own fair share at tennis matches, but was always quick to congratulate his opponent when he won. He was a good team player and could be counted on to bring his own pony to the regimental polo matches, and to stand a round afterward at the club. Admittedly, he was known to be careful of his men, mindful of their wellbeing, even considerate of their feelings – including the Indians among them – which set him somewhat apart from many of his fellow officers; but it was a tolerable fault. One never had any reason to doubt anything he said; Lumsden was a man of his word. He paid his bill at the club on time each month, and he always paid up promptly if he lost at cards. In short: he was a good officer – nothing outstanding, but solid and reliable. 

And he had other qualities equally important as simple competence at soldiering. He was easy to look at, and had a nice manner about him with the ladies, which endeared him to his superiors’ wives. That last quality meant, amongst other things, that the commanding officer always remembered him when there was a plum posting in the offing. And, of course, he was one of their own: son of the old Colonel (now retired). All that, plus a certain amount of application to his duties had led to him, in due course, receiving promotions. It had also led to several transfers, which had – most awkwardly from the ladies’ point of view – come at just the wrong time. Behind him, Major Lumsden had left – all oblivious – several budding relationships withered on the branch, as it were. 

He finally fell in love, as many men do, when on leave at Simla, where he chanced to meet a certain Mrs Youghal at Benmore. Not the same Miss Youghal I have written about before, who had some success in reforming Strickland of the Indian Police, so that he rose in prestige to a senior position. No, this _Mrs_ Youghal was her younger sister, only recently come out from England, a widow, but still young. She had married an impecunious cousin, much against her family’s wishes, but headstrong and utterly determined to have her own way (in this one can see the sisterly resemblance, for Mrs Strickland had been equally bent on choosing for herself five years earlier). Mrs Youghal’s husband had met with misadventure in a different corner of the Empire. She had, in accordance with his expressed wishes, taken his body back home for burial, but there was no chance of her remaining with her in-laws. He had been a younger son, and his income had died with him. So after a respectable interval for mourning (much of it spent in transit) , she arrived at her parents’ home in Lahore and thence to Simla in April. She resolved to do better for herself this time round; but she had not entirely put away girlish hopes either. 

Lumsden had that knack, which can take one far in India, of spotting a good opportunity; and, by dint of judicious investment, he had made quite a significant amount of money. It made him a good catch. That plus his rank made him much sought after by the mothers of eligible young ladies at Simla. But, as he was slightly older than many men when their thoughts turn to marriage, the giggling and simpering of the younger girls held less appeal. It was the quiet good looks and sensible ways of the young widow which attracted. He told himself she would do; in reality, however, he had fallen head-over-heels, as it sometimes takes a man who loves for the first time when past that first flush of enthusiastic youth. From her perspective, he appeared a safe prospect, given his rank and obvious wealth – just not a very exciting one. She dithered, but as the family made ready to return to Lahore at the end of the summer, eventually accepted. They were married two months after Lumsden had returned to Amritzar. 

Hitherto Major Lumsden had lived in bachelor lodgings. In keeping with married estate, he took a small house only a short ride from base, and engaged a couple as maid servant and groom. Emily Lumsden discharged the couple (who had _very_ sticky fingers) within one week of her arrival, hired two more servants (after taking advice from the Colonel’s wife) and quickly made the house into a comfortable home, complete with chintz curtains and an embroidery table for herself, and a study with a good supply of Scotch for the Major. She found her niche within regimental life without any real difficulty. The Guides are a unique (some say peculiar) branch of the service; but she embraced their traditions dutifully as a good wife should. She made friends with other regimental wives and invited subalterns and other junior officers to tea the first and third Sundays of every month. In turn she was invited to join the Colonel’s wife for lunch every other Sunday. Husband and wife had achieved all they wanted, seemingly, and ought to have been happy. Yet, there was a lingering dissatisfaction to both. 

When he thought about it (which was not often) Harry Lumsden found himself with a nagging doubt whether his wife really loved him. It was an uncomfortable sort of feeling and so he did his best to avoid this awareness; nonetheless it crept into the cracks of his life, when, for example, he was riding to and from his duties. She did all she should. (Emily was clearly a paragon amongst wives.) But she did not hang on his every word, the way someone truly enamoured would. Especially a wife newly married. He could not forget how she had asked for time to think when he had first proposed. Surely someone who loved him wholeheartedly would have accepted him straight off? He continued to do his duty on the parade ground, in the stable and mess hall; but his doubts were like acid on limestone and there was an infinitesimal decline in his work. He put off going on patrol. 

In contrast with her husband, Emily pondered her situation quite often, possibly because, while the life of the wife of a British officer in India can be busy, it is not exactly arduous (at least not for someone married to a Major with ample funds). Had she been married longer she would have been busy with children; but unlike many other wives her age, as yet, she had no offspring. In short: once the house was decorated to her liking, Emily found herself slightly bored. She read, of course; but the romances she enjoyed only showed up how far short her marriage fell from the romantic ideal she dreamed about. Not that romance was all it was cracked up to be. She had had that with her first marriage; and she could not deny that this second marriage held a lot of the comforts and security the other had lacked, which was important for romantic feelings to endure. Nonetheless: fine figure of a man Harry Lumsden might still be but most decidedly he had lost the ‘dash’ of his youth. When Mr Julian Thompson arrived as the new attaché from the Indian Political in Lahore with a letter from her parents, it seemed only polite to throw a party to introduce him to the ex-pat community. One outing, inevitably, led to another. 

All this, was, of course, quietly observed, but not commented upon (or at least not within the Lumsdens’ hearing) by one Dilawur Khan, now loyal Ressaldar of the Guides, that same son of Kamal-the-thief. Much had changed since the Major, in his youth, had galloped headlong after that red mare. Kamal had chosen the side of the Raj in a border skirmish ten years back, in return for a consideration of twenty fine Arab mares, and done well from his bargain. He now traded horses on both sides of the Afghan border, aided no doubt by the intelligence provided by his son, whose loyalty to the White Queen was not troubled in the least, given his father’s treaty with the same. However well Major Lumsden had done from his legitimate and honest investments, there was no doubting the wealth Kamal had achieved from his possibly slightly more dubious enterprises. Though that was, perhaps, an unfair conclusion to draw from a former horse-thief now turned horse-trader’s remarkable success. Kamal had a contract with the Indian Army to supply all manner of equines, from fine steeds intended for officers to pack ponies to mules. Major Lumsden’s own high-stepping grey gelding had been supplied by Kamal. 

Now, Dilawur acted. The English are an odd lot, with many strange customs, he wrote to his father, but there is no denying their success, given they rule all of India and – though you cannot see it from Peshawur and I can barely see it from Amritzar – half the rest of the globe to boot. And the bedrock of their rule rests in their womenfolk. Have they not the White Queen over them? Do they not toast her every evening in officer’s mess? So it is in their houses, where they stand in respect when their women come into the room. Yet this house of Lumsden is not solid on its base, despite having its woman, and all because of this unaccountable obsession with love. 

And so the plan was conceived. One fine Spring morning, Mrs Lumsden rode out on her very pretty bay mare, accompanied by one of her friends, escorted by Mr Julian Thompson. They were set upon soon after they entered the hills beyond the city; tribesmen thundered down from the sides, separating the Major’s wife from the rest of the party and whisking her off. Thompson made a notably poor showing in the melee, allowing himself to be unseated from his horse, though perhaps the concerted rush of dacoits in his direction may have accounted for this. Still, he did not come out with heroic demeanour, and turned tail sharpish to report the loss of Mrs Lumsden to the authorities. 

Now Mrs Lumsden’s bay was a good horse; but she was a proper lady’s mount, which is to say she was gentle and had a dainty step but was not noted for speed nor endurance, all of which the Major knew, for his years of buying mounts for the Guides had taught him to be a fine judge of horse flesh. He knew his grey gelding could catch her. He knew the hills and where the raiders would make for. He knew the spirit of his wife and what she would expect of him. He knew…no, he could only suspect. 

And so he set out. The hills were different, and he did not pass a fort on his way. But as Major Lumsden raced down the pass toward the banks of the River Ravi, heading generally northeast toward Pathankot he could not be unaware of the parallels between this ride and that one years ago. His horse was the better this time, though. And, knowing how determined his wife could be, he had no doubt she would be doing her best to hinder her abductors. 

And so it was he drew closer, and could see ahead of him a small group of men on swift horses, escorting a solitary Englishwoman on her pretty little mare. Three times he heard the breech-bolt snick and three times the bullet whistled by. The fourth went wildly astray; ahead he could see his wife lunging at Kamal, knocking his arm askew as he aimed his pistol. Lumsden only hoped Emily wouldn’t spoil Kamal’s aim so badly he was hit after all. As he drew closer, Lumsden drew his own weapon and fired, aiming just as carefully as the hill chieftain, and was rewarded with Kamal and his men turning to flee. His wife rode hell-for-leather (or as close as her little horse could make to it) in his direction. Within a minute he clutched an armful of warmly grateful woman to his chest. Within five minutes they were headed home. Within an hour they were ensconced in bed. 

A week later, Major Lumsden led a small patrol out the north road toward the hills. They camped on a hill overlooking the River Ravi, near a grove of red mulberry. The night was clear with a bright full moon, making it easy to see. As the men grew raucous on brew, after ensuring pickets were posted, Major Lumsden withdrew to his tent, leaving his men to their amusements (and the tender mercies of two sergeants and the somewhat green lieutenant), as a good commander does. 

The candle seemed to throw more shadows than light. From one of them Kamal emerged, white teeth flashing in his wide grin. 

“Well met, old friend.”

“Kamal, you old rogue,” Lumsden shook his head in wonder. “However do you sneak up on a person that way? 

“I could teach you inside of a month if you were to join me. But, no, you have your oath as an officer and gentleman, and it is not seemly for an Englishman to sneak where he must command. _That_ is left to the hillsman. So I must remain satisfied with just your pistols and not your companionship on my travels. Nor that of your lovely wife, thanks be to Allah, even though I lost a decent ransom by it, more’s the pity.” 

“Kamal!” Harry Lumsden feigned shock, before he chuckled. “You really _must_ stop stealing.” 

“No more, I swear.” Kamal held up his hands. “It did the trick?” 

“It did the trick.” After a slight pause, he added, “you took one hell of a risk, though.” 

“Less than you might think, except for the risk of having to keep your wife had someone else come after her. She caused much trouble even in the short time I had her, hitting and scratching and generally trying to evade my hold on her horse and escape back to town. In Peshawur she would be beaten as an unruly she-cat; but no doubt you took her home and petted and pampered her.” 

“It is the English way.” 

For several minutes, the two men stood face to face, looking at each other in silence. Theirs was an unlikely alliance, born from a fraught first meeting between enemies joined through mutual admiration for one another’s audacity and a common interest in…horse-trading. As an Indian, member of the conquered people (for though Kamal would have hotly contested this status if asked, pointing to his treaty, in his heart he knew) Kamal could not openly speak about why he had stolen the Major’s wife. For her honour and his, the Major could not speak about his feelings when he first heard she had been stolen. Their eyes said it without words and, in the end, Kamal simply inclined his head and slipped away. 

In Amritzar, Emily was much in demand, invited to ‘tell all’ about her recent ordeal, which was twittered about and exclaimed over. Much praise was heaped on her husband’s absent head for his quick thinking and swift actions; and the old tale of his rescue of his father’s mare resurrected and re-examined. For the first time, Emily, who had met her sober and sensible husband in his mid-thirties, heard about the brave impetuous youth of Harry Lumsden’s early twenties. She was not a stupid woman. At the time she had been too shocked by the attack to realise, but in hindsight it seemed strange for such a raid to be planned so close to a town the size of Amritzar. How had the tribesmen known her party would be riding out just then? And why take her and not her friend? Given the risks, surely two ransoms would be better than one? Also, _no one’s_ shots had found their target. Yet hillsmen’s accuracy with the rifle was legendary. And her husband had fired just one shot, and they all fled. “Like the cowards these natives really are underneath their bravado,” asserted one Captain’s wife. Emily was not so sure of this. Doubts crept in, unspoken, but: had she really been in danger? Had her husband set it up? In this she did the good Major an injustice; but it did him no disservice because she took it as proof of his deep love for her, which warmed her heart. 

And as for the rest? Mr Julian Thompson was held to be a coward and transferred soon after to Karachi, which was far enough distant no one had heard of his inglorious part of this episode. Major Lumsden learned his quick response had reminded his superiors of his virtues and found himself promoted to Colonel within three months and transferred to Lahore, which pleased his wife no end as she was close to her parents and could visit her sister, Mrs Strickland, more easily. And she became a devoted wife, with – in the fullness of time – many children.


End file.
